Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover's Kiss / The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore
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Tunbarrow whirled around on the threshold and, hands on her ample hips, glared at them. “A fine friend you are, I must say, Sir Douglas Drury, breaking that poor boy’s heart!”
Then, with a huff, she marched away, her footsteps loud on the tiles.
“She obviously believes Buggy has an interest in you that has been thwarted,” Sir Douglas observed with that aggravating calm, while Juliette felt as if she’d stepped into something she shouldn’t.
“I hope with all my heart that she’s wrong,” she said quietly.
“You do? He is a peer of the realm,” Sir Douglas replied as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black riding coat. “There would be many women who would envy you.”
“I do not want a lover,” she said, moving to stand behind the chair. That seemed necessary… somehow. “He would never marry a woman like me.”
Sir Douglas neither frowned nor smiled. His expression was completely noncommittal. “Buggy’s not the sort of man to pay much heed to public opinion, or his parents’, either. If he wants to marry, I’m sure he won’t let anyone stand in his way.”
“If he loved me, neither would I,” she replied, “but he would have to love me with all his heart. I am not ignorant of the world, Sir Douglas. I know he would be shunned by his friends, his family and all of society. It would be the two of us alone, and only the deepest, most devoted and passionate love would ensure that he didn’t come to regret marrying a girl like me.”
“You don’t think Buggy could love you that much?”
She thought of Lord Bromwell’s friendly manner—but it was just that. Friendly. There was no hint of yearning, no hidden passion in his eyes when he looked at her. “Non. He is kind and affectionate, but he does not desire me. I’m sure he thinks of me as a friend, and no more.”
Sir Douglas turned away and strolled toward the side of the room and a shelf holding some small papier-mâché dogs. “Perhaps you should enlighten Mrs. Tunbarrow on that point,” he remarked as he studied them.
“I shall. And you must tell Lord Bromwell of our plan to pretend that we are engaged.”
He continued to examine the rather garish knick-knacks. “Easily done. It won’t be easy for you, though, returning to your old life when this situation is resolved.”
“I think I shall not.”
He slowly turned on his heel to regard her. “No?”
She saw no reason not to tell him of the plans she’d been making while she sewed. “The clothes you purchased for me—they are mine to do with as I please, are they not?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall sell them, and take the money and go back to France. I shall become a modiste.”
He picked up the apron she had been working on and put it on the chair. “I am no expert on such matters, but I believe you sew very well and your taste is exquisite—certainly better than Madame de Malanche’s. I’m sure you would be a great success.”
She was flattered and pleased, but disappointed, too, although there was no reason she should be.
“How much money would it require to set up a shop?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, glancing at the velvet box. Probably a fraction of what that necklace was worth. “I could work from my lodgings at first, until I have a clientele and enough money to rent a separate establishment.”
“That could take years.”
She didn’t disagree.
“I believe it would be a sound investment to loan you the funds to set up your shop in Paris, or anywhere else you choose.”
He spoke calmly, dispassionately, as if his offer was nothing—but it was everything to her. The only thing that could make her happier would be if Georges were alive.
Yet she tried not to react with too much emotion, since that disturbed him so. “Thank you. I will repay you every penny.”
“I don’t doubt it, or I wouldn’t make the offer.” His lips turned down slightly. “There’s no more obligation to me than if I loaned my money to any other friend.”
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